


Sugarcane

by objectlesson



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Body Worship, F/F, Gender or Sex Swap, Illya has a big clit, Internalized Misogyny, Oral Sex, PWP, The woman from A.U.N.T if you will, They're both girls!, Tribbing, that's all, there's no tripping tag??? what the fuck AO3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 00:36:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19366726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Solo tentatively inches her fingers through Illya’s hair, coming it gently. “I’m sorry if I came across as anything other than tremendously enthused about what I felt between your legs,” she says, speaking of anatomy, ofsexas confidently as she speaks of food, or murder. It’s infuriating andlovelyand Illya is weak around the curl of heat it sparks in her stomach, in spite of everything





	Sugarcane

**Author's Note:**

> This literally happened because I watched a bunch of videos of girls with really big clits fucking fleshlights??? Like holy hell!!! So hot!!! Anyway Thais is to blame for the videos in the first place, SHOCKING she would be responsible for some late-night PWP on my part lmao. 
> 
> Unedited and raw af sorry everyone!!!

It’s something she simply doesn't speak of, like bleeding every month or the sudden onset of sickness which overcame her each time she was expected to lace up another girl’s bodice at the Bolshoi. It is there, a persistent and inconvenient reality, but otherwise unspeakable. 

Of course, Solo and her crass American accent find _nothing_ unspeakable. 

So, the first time Illya is compromised by arousal enough she _actually_ lets Solo sneak her hand beneath the waistband of her utilitarian white underwear and feel the feverish slick there, she speaks of it. 

Slender thief’s fingers thumb aside blonde curls to push between folds, and _fuck,_ it’s so searing and sweet and wonderful she _forgets_ for a moment, that there’s anything to explain or apologize about. Then, Solo freezes, breath hitching in her throat before she murmurs, “ _Jesus,_ Peril.” 

Illya’s body remembers before her mind catches up, a powerful wave of shame washing over her, making her body lock up, her hand curl vice-tight around Solo’s wrist, delicate tendons inside grinding together under the pressure as she yanks her hand out. “I—I’m sorry,” she mumbles, cheeks burning as she scrambles away, some of Solo’s jet-black hair still clinging to her lips like the remnants of a broken promise. “I didn’t—you do not have to—“

“Wait! Wait, fuck, come back,” Solo barks, immediately launching up and getting Illya in an easy chokehold, throwing her back onto crisp white hotel linens. Normally Illya would not allow herself to be tossed around so easily, but there is only thing which makes her slow and stupid and vulnerable, and that is Pollyanna Solo. 

So, she collapses, gasping, squirming. “Let me go.” 

“I will,” Solo says easily, shifting the flex of her arm minimally to allow for a breath. Then, she tentatively inches her fingers through Illya’s hair, coming it gently. “I’m sorry if I came across as anything other than tremendously enthused about what I felt between your legs,” she says, speaking of anatomy, of _sex_ as confidently as she speaks of food, or murder. It’s infuriating and _lovely_ and Illya is weak around the curl of heat it sparks in her stomach, in spite of everything. The _thing_ between her leg throbs, chaffing against her thighs as she rubs them together. 

“It’s not usually that big,” she admits, shutting her eyes because it’s easier to get words out when she doesn't have to look at the long, pale, glorious expanse of Solo’s mostly naked body, save for her black lace bra, her high-waisted matching underwear. She is neatly trimmed, pink, and pretty like a flower beneath them. Illya knows because she’s hungrily sucked at the mess of delicate folds there until Solo exploded in a wreck of heat and salt onto her tongue. She knows, and of course, knows that she’s not the same. That she does not fit neatly into a crease, easily parted and licked inside. She spills out, excessive and ugly when she’s not aroused, threatening and obscene when she is. Solo is so much _better_ at being a woman than she is, right down to their _bodies._ It makes her want to drown, to find some answer in a pot of honey with the tip of her tongue. Anything but open up her own thighs. “I mean, it’s _always_ bigger than yours but not quite. Not quite like this. You have me this way.” 

“God,” Solo purrs, nails digging into Illya’s scalp, where her roots are sweat-damp. “That’s so fucking _hot,_ Illya—you know, I’ve thought so much about feeling you there, touching you. Wondering if you get wet when you eat me out.” 

“I do,” Illya admits in a shameful mumble, rubbing her thighs together, everything nervy, too sensitive. “You felt.” 

“I did,” Solo tells her, tentatively loosening her hold yet again, smoothing one hand to play over Illya’s collarbones, thumb over the rapid, terrified flicker of her pulse. “Also felt how _hard_ you are for me.” 

Illya’s stomach turns. “I am not like you,” she announces, deciding it’s best to lean into it, now that the unspeakable has been spoken, Solo always dragging things into the light. Not— _pretty,_ delicate. No part of me.” 

“You’re gorgeous,” Solo tells her without missing a beat. Then: “You know what _I_ want to do?” 

Illya does not trust herself to speak, so she shakes her head _no_ instead, throbbing between her thighs, so swollen. And she _knows_ what it looks like, how big, how imposing, how…androgynous. It’s why she hates touching herself, it’s why she feels betrayed by her own body. And yet, there are so many other things she’s loathed about herself, or at the very least _actively ignored,_ which Solo has somehow managed to smooth over with kisses. Solo has a habit of praising Illya’s perceived flaws enough she feels guilty for aiming hostility at them in the first place. So, she swallows and mumbles, “What do you want to do?” 

“I want to suck it,” Solo tells her, hand flickering where it rests against Illya’s throat. “See how big I can make it. And then, I want you to fuck me with it.” 

Illya’s vision whites out, her heart leaps as if scorched with fire. She’s dreamed of being able to do such a thing, getting _inside_ the searing, dripping clutch of Solo’s body so many times, all the while knowing it was impossible. They _are_ both women, no matter how irregular Illya’s anatomy becomes when she’s aroused. Women simply don’t _fuck_ each other unassisted. “I’m not a _man,”_ she reminds her, struggling in vain just as Solo disentangles herself, flipping her mane of black hair from one shoulder to the other. 

“Thank god,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “You know how much I hate _those.”_

_“_ So you are not—you still want to touch me?” Illya asks, even though she _knows,_ can tell by the way Solo is settling down onto her stomach, sneaking those clever hands between Illya’s knees to part them and wedge her shoulders stubbornly between them. She can see her dilated pupils, her soft pink lips open and parted and panting. Solo so clearly, observably _wants to,_ she wants to taste the same way Illya wants to taste _her._ It’s baffling, but Illya is a spy, so she cannot write off the things she sees with her own eyes. 

“Do I?! Take these off,” Solo orders, hooking a finger into the tiny gap beside Illya’s hip bone and snapping them against her flat stomach. “Let me show you how fucking badly I want to touch you.” 

—-

Illya learns her big clit _can_ be pretty, if it’s resting on Solo’s plump lower lip, if it’s pulsing under her tongue as she flicks it back and forth before sucking into her mouth and groaning, eyes shut in unmistakable bliss. Illya gets a fist in her black curls, pulls her closer, grinds into the maddening slick of her mouth with her head thrown back, regretting every moment she spent pushing Solo’s hands away before this night. 

Up until now, she’s only come in her underwear, grinding against Solo’s creamy, undulating thigh as she fucks her own hips into it. But _this,_ her lips, her mouth, the vibration of every tiny, desperate sound she makes as she eats her out, is _so much better._ More raw, more real. Illya thought there was nothing better than holding Solo’s thighs apart and licking her to gushing ruin beneath her tongue, and she was right. But _this_ is a close second. 

“God,” Solo murmurs as she pulls off, blue eyes flashing up at Illya through a mess of her hair, from beneath dark lashes. “Can get my whole mouth around you, suck it so deep. You’re driving me crazy.” 

It seems like an absurd thing to say, since Illya feels like the one being driven crazy, the one whose sanity is fraying with each flick of Solo’s tongue. She blinks the static away, reaches between her own flexing thighs to thumb over the violent spot of color on Solo’s cheek. “You think—I am big enough? To be inside you?” 

“Jesus christ,” Napoleon mumbles, sitting up and reaching behind her back with one hand and elegantly unhooking her bra in a single, effortless motion. She shoulders her way out of it, breasts heavy and perfect and somehow paler than the rest of her where they hang and as always, Illya’s robbed of words, of breath. There were moments back when they were first partnered up when she thought the tight, frantic feeling in her throat whenever she saw Solo’s chest was the product of envy, teenage frustration at her mostly flat ballerina’s sternum resurfacing to haunt her. Then she’s find the wet spot in her underwear, clit irritated from being chaffed in its swollen state, and she knew what it was. A different teenage haunting, a ghost she knows from dressing rooms at the Bolshoi. Now, she gets to touch Solo so she does, reaches for each sweet, soft palmfuls of flesh and pulls her close. 

“I think you’re big enough, yes,” Solo purrs before she kisses her, deep and messy, tongue tasting like musk and salt and spice. “But even if you’re not, I still want to feel you against me. Want to grind mine into yours, want you to feel how wet I get for you. Want you as close as I can get you, Illyusha.” 

Illya keens, pushes her hands wrist deep into her hair, bucks her hips. “You will have to show me how,” she murmurs into Solo’s plush mouth. “I don’t—I can’t—”

“Yes you can,” Solo assures her, pulling back and tugging her underwear down her thighs. The elastic leaves pink marks in her skin and Illya thumbs over them, wishing they were under her tongue instead. “You just let me put you where I need you, ok? My beautiful, flexible ballerina.” The words make Illya’s gut curl in dual arousal and embarrassment, but the feeling doesn’t linger long because almost immediately it’s replaced by the sudden shock of Solo hiking her up, spreading her legs, splitting her like a wishbone with her hands splayed on the insides of her thighs. 

“Hey—Cowgirl,” she snaps, one hand flying to cover herself. She _knows_ Solo was just _eating her out_ but somehow she feels more exposed like this, spread to her hungry, all-pupil gaze. 

“Appropriate,” she says, climbing atop Illya’s hips. “Seeing as I’m about to ride you. _God,_ that is gorgeous,” she groans after batting Illya’s defensive hand away, rubbing her fingers over her clit before smearing wetness from below it over the exposed head. Illya whites out, hisses, forgets about how bared she is because suddenly she _isn’t_ anymore. Solo is lowering herself right down onto her, the wettest, hottest, most molten thing. 

“Fuck,” she chokes out, fingers biting into Solo’s soft, curvy hips, dimpling the pale skin under her nails. “You’re dripping on me.” 

“God, Illya, _Illya,_ look at that,” Solo gasps, staring down between then where they’re pressed flush, fingers combing her black pubic hair away so Illya can _see,_ the fused pink, the creamy slickness. “You’re inside me, so easy. Can feel you right—look,” she orders, rocking back, spreading herself so Illya can see between the delicate folds framing _her clit,_ which is swollen but otherwise just a delicious nub, sweet and pearl-sized and perfect for rolling around under her tongue. It looks so _small_ next to Illya’s, but instead of spiking shame in her gut it just makes her _mouth_ water, her stomach clench. 

“Does it feel good?” she asks, still holding tight to Solo’s grip even as she grinds in it, rubbing their clits together, nudging her tender little bump against Illya’s hungrily, slicking her up as she shifts. 

“Like heaven, fuck, you’re so _hard,_ so good. Look so fucking pretty up against me, Jesus,” Solo moans, fucking against Illya relentlessly, so unashamed of the way her breasts are bouncing, the way her stomach is curves in such away Illya’s thumbs are buried in rolls. She is the most stunning thing, always chasing her pleasure in such desperate, single-minded pursuit she loses sight of how she looks, where she left her glamour, nearly _everything_. Except, perhaps, Illya’s pleasure. “Does it feel good for you?” she asks, arching her back, gasping. “It it too sensitive?” 

Illya doesn’t know if it’s too sensitive, only that it _is_ good, stinging and sensational and hot, so overwhelming she can feel her heart trying to beat out of her chest with each pang of friction. “It’s—you are perfect.” 

“How does it feel? Inside my cunt? Can you feel me— _god,”_ Solo huffs out as she slides up again, pushing Illya’s clit up inside her instead of rubbing against it. Illya feels _encompassed,_ swallowed, Solo’s insides hotter than her mouth but not as tight, more twitching than suction. “I want to come right here,” she says, grinding down hard, pulsing. “Want to come sitting on the big clit. Want you to feel it.” 

Illya wants to wipe her eyes because they are leaking down her cheeks, but she does not want to let go of Solo’s waist, so she does not. She just cries down her face, letting the sobs wrack out of her, the tears pool at the corners of her gasping mouth. She feels like a raw nerve frayed to madness under the shifting burn of Solo’s cunt, her thighs wet and aching, her abdominals spasming. Solo does this to her: breaks her open, wears her down until she is reduced to her basest impulses. She used to hate it, and she still _would,_ if she had not learned that for some reason, Solo is always there to pick up the pieces of whatever she's broken, kiss them back together. She loves Illya as Illya loves her, even though Illya feels unlovable most days. The improbable balm of love is what makes it alright, that this _happens_ to her: that she shudders to pieces and ruins hotel sheets and leaves bruises in the shape of her spread-wide fingers on Solo’s perfect hips. That her clit is so big, that her body is never what she wants it to be. 

She knows when Solo comes not _just_ because she throws her head back and yelps, but because she _feels_ the mad pulsing, the rhythmic clutch of her cunt against—no— _around_ her. It’s absolution, and it makes her buck and writhe and grind hard into the wild slick of it so she can follow, right after. There’s static, and their heartbeats, in their chests but alt in that filthy place where they’re still rubbing together amidst a flood. 

Then, Solo collapses into her, laughing breathlessly, long lovely legs seemingly everywhere. She’s so _soft_ against Illya’s angles, so many curves and swells spread and twitching over every flat plane, as if Ilya is made from knives and boards and Solo is melted butter, rich, sweet, endless. Sometimes Illya stops crying after she comes, but this is not one of those times. 

Solo eventually sits up, arranges herself, curls around Illya like a cat to kiss those tears up off her cheeks. “Thank you for letting me have you, finally, _finally._ You were well worth the wait, and though I’d live through that wait again in a heartbeat, I’m glad I won’t have to.” 

Illya’s voice is hoarse when it comes out. “I did not know two women could—“ she struggles to find the words, throat thick until she relents to her inability to talk as freely as Solo and settles upon, “I didn’t know I could do that to you.” 

“Not _all_ women could,” Solo announces, flopping back onto the bed, hair a black halo across white sheets, white skin. Illya thumbs over her nipple, and then her mouth, chasing smears of pink across the room with tear-hazy eyes. “We only got away with such brilliance because _you_ are special.” 

And it still feels unspeakable, now that Illya has come and the acute shine or arousal has faded somewhat, leaving her with all the ugly human things that drive shame, years of ballet and KGB conditioning teaching her that women were not allowed to be vast, or excessive. However, Solo has stolen the disgust from other parts of her body, and she is a very, very good thief. Illya kisses her temple and holds her with trembling arms, and leans into the faith she has that Solo knows how to crack even her most heavily guarded safes.


End file.
